


Soundtracks

by BobSkeleton



Category: The Mighty Boosh (TV)
Genre: ALL OF IT, Gen, I might be the first person to write Tony Harrison angst, M/M, Masturbation, Music, Naboo is over it, Pining, Song fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-10
Updated: 2019-09-07
Packaged: 2020-04-23 21:09:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19159027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BobSkeleton/pseuds/BobSkeleton
Summary: Essentially a collection of song-fic drabbles for various Boosh characters.





	1. Untitled, The Cure (Vince)

**Author's Note:**

> Might be a WIP? I like to think I'll add to it as I get more ideas. 
> 
> Kudos as always to blackmountainbones for being an incredible beta and supporter.

Vince had always liked the Cure songs like “Friday I’m in Love” and “Mint Car”, the happy ones, which made him he imagine Robert Smith bopping around the studio in an oversized shirt with his signature lippie smeared over his face. Vince didn’t like the sad Cure songs, but goddamn if they weren’t the best things to listen to on the days he felt down-and-out, on the days when bad things happened to sunshine people, too.

 _Hopelessly adrift_   
_In the eyes of the ghost again_   
_Down on my knees_   
_And my hands in the air again_   
_Pushing my face in the memory of you again_   
_But I never know if it's real_ _  
Never know how I wanted to feel_

Vince pushes himself against the memory of Howard so close to him, mustache tickling his lip, hands grappling needily against his shoulders, the back of his neck, his straightened hair. He loses himself, adrift in the eyes of the ghost of Howard on the night of his party, eyes ablaze with passion and conviction. Of course, all of that had worn off in mere minutes. And now Vince didn’t know if it was real, didn’t know how he wanted to feel.

 _Never quite managed the words to explain to you_   
_Never quite knew how to make them believable_   
_And now the time has gone_ _  
Another time undone_

“I love you, too” is all it would have taken. But Vince had laughed. He’d gawked in disbelief, the shock of the moment shutting down whatever rational action his lone brain cell might have taken. He had never been good with words like Howard, never been good at reading or writing or speaking well enough to his intent known. Vince was good at pictures and hair and sewing. Ask him to paint his feelings for Howard, and he’d give you a masterpiece. Ask him to say the words, and he couldn’t manage, couldn’t make them believable. And now the moment was gone. Could it ever be undone?

 _Hopelessly fighting the devil futility_   
_Feeling the monster_   
_Climb deeper inside of me_   
_Feeling him gnawing my heart away_   
_Hungrily_   
_I'll never lose this pain_ _  
Never dream of you again_

Only he will, he knows he will. He knows he’ll dream of Howard awake or asleep, every day and night, for the rest of his life, clinging to the hope that he will have a chance to say the right words and grab the ghost by the hand and bring him to life and finally, _finally,_ lose the pain.

He swallows the lump in his throat, takes a sip of orange juice (he’d heard somewhere that you can’t produce tears and swallow at the same time) and switches over to Gary Numan. Stupid Robert Smith...he’s well depressing, even if his hair is genius.


	2. Tusk, Fleetwood Mac (Tony Harrison)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony Harrison listens to his favorite song off his favorite album and yearns a little.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout out to blackmountainbones, as always, for helping.

It was the song he and Mrs. Harrison had danced to at their wedding, the title song off Fleetwood Mac’s best album. The beat was good, the brass got people going... nevermind the lyrics were a little sad.

Tonight, he played it on vinyl in his study, alone and utterly shitfaced, as was his wont. Mrs. Harrison was off at her sister’s. Again. And the carpet cleaning at the Shaman Lodge meant any activities there were postponed for a day or so. He takes a hit.

_ Why don’t you ask him who’s nearest on his throne? _

People would laugh if they knew, but he had, at one point, wanted children. The amount of mental blocks and mind-reading walls he has to put up to keep this secret desire safe is not inconsiderable--god forbid Dennis, Naboo, or, worst of all, Saboo, found out. When he was younger, he’d thought maybe a boy, but over the last century or so his heart has softened to the idea of a little girl. Even a humanoid little girl, adopted perhaps, who would grow up taller than him and maybe carry him around in his papoose. His tentacles would probably be adept at plaiting human hair...

Not that Mrs. Harrison shared these dreams. He and Mrs. Harrison haven’t shared anything in ages. He takes a drink.

He imagined calling the little girl Stevie just to annoy Saboo. Stevie, Toni (after himself, of course), Grace, Janis... any of these would do, with Tusk as a middle name. Stevie Tusk Harrison. He liked the idea of coming home to someone who loved him and needed him, someone he could teach about good music and brewing potions when she was old enough, someone to call out “H-Man!” when he walks through the tiny front door (never “daddy” or “papa,” that’d be an outrage). Not Mrs. Harrison, of course. Someone who loved and needed him.

If she  _ was  _ an earth-child, he’d have to build in a bigger door for her, eventually. He could ask Naboo, he knew a lot about earthlings. Maybe he’d know how to adopt an earth child.

The fuck is he thinking? An outrage!

_ Don’t say that you love me. Just tell me that you want me.  _

He empties his glass (through a pink crazy straw of course), takes another bump, and sets the record needle back to repeat the song, just one more time. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This song is called "Tusk" and it's off Fleetwood's Mac album, also called "Tusk." Go listen, and be in awe of the H-Man!


	3. Age of Aquarius, The Fifth Dimension (Naboo)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Humans writing stupid songs about astrology is...stupid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, blackmountainbones. May I one day write Naboo half as well as you do.

_ This song is such bollocks. The moon goes into the second house every single day, that pie-faced buffoon. And Jupiter aligns with Mars all the time. Idiots. Besides, everyone knows the Age of Aquarius won’t be until earth’s 24th century.  _

_ Imagine Vince and Howard in the 24th century...Christy.  _

“Bollo, pass me that frog. I need to smoke him. And change the bloody radio.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song is called "Age of Aquarius" by the Fifth Dimension. Fun fact: my highly conservative high school forbade us from playing this in marching band because astrology might lead you to the devil. Neat!


	4. Poison, Alice Cooper (Howard)

The green van’s engine turned over with a rumble as Howard twisted the key.

 _One look could kill,_  
_My pain, your thrill_

Howard rolled his eyes. Much to his chagrin, the last time they’d been in the van, Vince won a game of “Rock, Paper, Scissors” and had gotten to choose the music. Vince kept going on about Alice Cooper, who Howard had thought might be a female rock guitarist until Vince told him, “His real name’s Vince, too! Imagine that. When I found that out, I used to imagine he was my dad. Do you think we look alike, Howard?” Howard had shut down at that point in favor of watching the road, letting Vince natter on and on...

Before he could switch the cassette player off, the next line caught Howard by surprise:

 _I_ _wanna love you, but I better not touch  
I wanna hold you, but my senses tell me to stop_  
_I wanna kiss you, but I want it too much_  
_I wanna taste you but your lips are venomous poison_

Maybe it was because he’d just been thinking of Vince. Maybe it was because Howard’s line _Don’t touch me_ was entirely founded upon the fact that touch was, for him, too much. Not just touch, though he disliked touching people in general. If Howard was really honest with himself, it was Vince’s touch that needled him. And if he was really, really honest, he knew that was because he wanted it too much. Either way, Howard found himself sitting in the van, alone in the dark night in the car park down the street from the Nabootique, with the engine idling as he turned up the volume to hear the song better.

As the guitar (which was too loud but skillfully played, Howard had to admit) shredded through the chorus, Howard let go of his tight hold on himself and his consciousness. He closed his eyes, let his head fall back against the seat, and allowed images of Vince fill his head, the images he usually kept under a tight mental lock and key: Vince dressed as a goth, in that ridiculous studded skirt and fishnets and platform boots, hair teased high, cheekbones punctuated with blusher, lips red and glossy…

He felt a twinge between his legs and sighed. He hated this, hated the biological need to release, but in this moment, with this bloody song playing… he didn’t care. Checking out the windows to be sure he was alone, he palmed himself through his trousers, sighing audibly with relief. The pressure was just enough to tease his growing length, but not enough to offer any relief.

The film reel in his head continued: Vince dressed as a nana, that blonde wig suiting him beautifully, offsetting his gorgeous sapphire eyes. Vince during his punk phase, with his hair defying gravity, his eyes soulfully rimmed in kohl, lips slick with gloss, his pointy features arranged into an artful sneer. Vince asleep, clean-faced and flat-haired, nuzzling his pillow in the darkness. Vince’s hands. The way they felt when they touched him. Not the long-fingered hands of a musician like himself, but the dextrous, work-honed hands of an artist, painting longing in him with each touch. Vince’s neck, long and slim and white. His delicate bones, his collarbone in particular…

Howard took his aching cock out of his pants and trousers and began to work in earnest. The sounds of self-gratification were drowned beneath the music.

 _Your mouth, so hot_  
_Your web, I'm caught_  
 _Your skin, so wet  
Black lace, on sweat_

Howard’s hard red cock twitched, nearly spending as a jolt of pleasure fired through him at those words. What kind of filthy sex music was this? He knew Vince’s mouth was hot, hot and sweet and delectable from the enthusiasm with which he’d snogged Howard at his birthday party. The images of Vince’s skin, wet and covered in black lace urged Howard on as he stroked faster and faster, rubbing his thumb over the tip of his cock and letting himself groan in ecstasy. His balls tightened threateningly. Howard usually never came this quickly but Vince...

_I hear you calling and it's needles and pins  
I wanna hurt you just to hear you screaming my name_

Vince calling his name. “Hey, Howard. All right, Howard? Howard?? HOWARD!” He ran a finger down the underside of his shaft, letting it tease his balls and make its way back up to his slit, then resumed furiously thrusting into his own fist. He didn’t need to hurt Vince to hear him say his name. Although… wished-for images came unbidden: ropes tightening, pale skin bruising, teeth biting…

_Don't wanna touch you, but you're under my skin  
I wanna kiss you, but your lips are venomous poison_

Body tightening then releasing, he came with a shuddering groan, deep and guttural, panting for breath. He hadn’t come this hard in ages. Usually Howard found his pleasure as a perfunctory routine in the shower. He rarely let himself go like this, and certainly not thinking of Vince, though the thoughts were never far from the surface.

_You're poison running through my veins  
You're poison, I don't wanna break these chains_

Damn you, Vince, he thought to himself. Hands still trembling a little, Howard tucked himself back into his trousers. He found a tissue box in the backseat and cleaned up as best he could. He wondered if Vince would know, if he would be able to tell, to smell it, when he got into the van. Howard rolled down the window, just in case. The song faded, and Howard rewound the tape to listen to it again as he put the gear into drive and made his way to pick up Vince from a club downtown. He’d been angry when he got the call. Now, though… images of Vince, drunk and uninhibited, black lace against pale skin…

Howard shook his head, trying to clear his mind. He turned the music off. No more Alice Cooper. He had to go get Vince. Vince, the poison in Howard’s veins. Poison he would drink again and again until he died from it. He’d do it happily, too, contentedly kept captive in his chains.

 

Howard had no sooner pulled up to the club than Vince was letting himself in, teetering on heeled boots, clearly impaired. “All right, ‘oward?” he greeted, fumbling with the seatbelt.

“Not really,” said Howard. “It’s half two in the morning, Vince, what the hell--”

“Think someone slipped s’mthing in my drink,” said Vince, his voice fuzzy and his eyes far away. “Leroy us’ally looks out for me but he got off wiv a bird, and…” Vince’s voice drifted off as he tried to focus on Howard. “Smells good in ‘ere, Howard. Smells like you. M’favorite…” he closed his eyes.

Howard couldn’t be mad, not when he was slightly panicking that someone might have drugged Vince. He sighed deeply. “Vince, what are we going to with you, little man?” He reached over and ruffled Vince’s hair affectionately.

“Dunno,” said Vince. Howard made to withdraw his hand, but was stopped as Vince grabbed it. “Don’t stop,” whined Vince as he placed a gloss-sticky kiss to Howard’s wrist. The skin there tingled as Vince drifted off to sleep.

_Your lips are venomous poison_

Back at the flat, Howard had Naboo look Vince over. He’d definitely had something in his drink, but nothing lethal. Howard still decided to keep an eye on him through the night, and the best way to do that was to be right next to him. In bed. For medical reasons.

If asked, Howard would say that he slipped off Vince’s ridiculous boots, removed the gaudy amounts of jewelry, and tried to get him as comfortable as possible, for medical reasons before slipping into bed next to him. Vince smelled sweaty and boozy, but still sweet with whatever perfume he’d put on. Howard fell asleep, the lyrics of “Poison” still swirling in his head.

 

When Vince awoke the next morning, bleary-eyed but clear-headed, he found himself in bed with Howard, who was positively nuzzling into the juncture of his neck and shoulder. Despite feeling like shit, Vince smiled. He would love this, would love if this became the new normal. He’d never wanted anything else, and if he had it, would never want anything again. He lay in bed, Howard warm and heavy against him, and decided to ask him about it when he woke. See if he’d be up for a little kiss, if he could sneak past the “don’t touch me” goalie. Howard had been under his skin since the party, had been in his veins like a poison, and Vince didn’t want the antidote.


End file.
